Waltzing the Erinyes
by MKawaii
Summary: Bordon, murder and a flock of Germans.. does it get any better? Finally updated!
1. The One Left Behind

Author's Notes: This is a Bordonfic! (the first on fanficnet, as far as I know..). I dont think Captain Bordon (Colonel Tavington's second in command of the dragoons) got enough screentime in the movie, after they cut most of his scenes out (a few can be seen in the special features section of the DVD, but some werent even included there!), so I'm writing an entire story for him!   
  
Most of this story takes place shortly after the battle of Guilford Courthouse, which wasnt covered in the movie but would have been between the big fight at "Cowpens" and the end narration on the surrender at Yorktown. Our man Bordon survived his wounds at the hands of Gabriel after the Pembroke incident and subsequently sat-out Cowpens as he recovered. I've used the movie version of the battle (horribly inaccurate as it is), but moved it to its proper time, in January. This story is dedicated to Janeen and Andrea, for starting the fab Bordon yahoo group ( http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Bordons_camp_followers/ ), and all the group's members! Love you guys! ~Julie (Bordon archive webmistress)   
  


**Chapter 1- The One Left Behind**

_And, like a sin, Time lays it bare again_

_To tell of races wronged,_

_And ancient glories suddenly overcast,_

_And treasures flung to fire and rabble wrath._

_If thou hast ever longed_

_To lift the gloomy curtain of Time Past,_

_And spy the secret things Hades hath,_

_Here through this riven ground take such a view._

-from "Uniconium, an Ode" by Wilfred Owen (1913)

  
  
March 20th, 1781- Cross Creek, North Carolina   
  
  
James Bordon ran his fingers over the new stripes on his jacket, his gaze distant. Six months earlier he would have been overjoyed at the promotion to Major, but now it merely stirred the cold emptiness inside him. Following his serious wound at the hands of the Ghost's son outside Pembroke, then Captain Bordon had been hauled back to the British camp on Turkey Creek by his commanding officer Colonel William Tavington and another survivor of the ambush, a young Cornet named Jasper Wilmington.   
  
His wounds had been grievous and the surgeons marveled at the fact he was still alive when the field hospital attendants carried him in, ashen faced and drenched in his own blood. The rebel's knife had penetrated deeply under his ribcage, ripping through his diaphragm and puncturing his left lung. With the extensive blood-loss and the Captain's horrible wheezing as he lay on the table, none of the doctors thought he'd make it through the night. He would have been abandoned completely in favor of other patients with more hopeful outlooks for recovery if not for the insistence of Colonel Tavington, who'd actually held one of the younger surgeons at gunpoint until the man agreed to see to his second in command. Only then had the Colonel consented to having his own wounds looked after, keeping a watchful eye on Bordon's nervous young medical officer the entire time. 

The surgeon and his assistant managed to stop the external bleeding from the knife's entrance wound, but could do nothing for the internal damage. Unable to determine the seriousness of the lung puncture, all they could do was sit and wait. If the tear was small and clotted quickly, there was a possibility of recovery- if it was large the bleeding would not stop. His lungs would continue to fill with semi-clotted blood until the fluid became so thick it would prevent breathing, and the Captain would effectively drown in his own blood.   
  
A nurse sat with him through the night, wiping away the flecks of blood laced foam that formed on his lips and around his nostrils as he labored for breath. Somehow he made it through that night, and then the next. A week later he was still hanging on and the doctors were speechless. They continued to wait, every morning expecting to find that Bordon had slipped off during the night, only to find him in state unchanged. Two weeks after his injury they finally resolved to themselves that the Captain wasn't going anywhere and put him into a sort of holding pattern. He was given a permanent bed in a quiet end of one of the hospital tents and checked several times a day by members of the medical staff.   
  
Thus time passed and the war continued, with James Bordon oblivious to the world around him. The weather cooled as winter settled over the Carolinas, and the doctors became weary that the weakened state of Bordon's lungs might invite a bout of pneumonia-- but again luck intervened and his recovery progressed slowly. 

By mid-January, a month after surviving the ambush at the creek, Bordon was often conscious for short periods of time. Denied the blessings of oblivion, he finally had to begin coping with the intense pain and discomfort of his injuries. A number of times he'd awoken, thrashing about his cot in a panic, convinced that someone must be standing on his chest- the act of breathing was so hard and torturous. The doctors denied him laudanum for treatment of the pain, not only because it was in short supply but also on their belief that it might do him more harm than good. Any lowering of his blood pressure the drug might cause could have been enough to kill him, considering his anemic, oxygen deprived state. So he'd floated in and out of awareness, between the raging pain of wakefulness and the numb relief of unconsciousness.   
  
At one point, he awoke to find himself in the midst of a chaotic uproar. His quiet end of the hospital tent was quiet no more as the surgical staff raced about in a frenzy, treating the hundreds of new casualties that had just flooded back into camp. Bordon made the great effort of turning his head slightly toward the commotion, his mind trying to put names to faces amidst the dizzying confusion whilst fighting back the blackness that tried to swallow him again. Through the maze of moving legs and arms, a familiar red and green shape caught his attention. The uniform labeled the man as a member of the Green Dragoons, Bordon's own unit. Two surgical assistants carried the limp form to a nearby cot and Bordon squinted to see, recognizing the contorted face of Captain John Wilkins before his vision faded and unconsciousness claimed him once more.   
  
When the world returned to him a short while later, he discovered Wilkins on the cot next to his own. The man was motionless and ashen-faced in the flickering light of the lamps, his eyes locked on the roof of the tent in a blank stare. One of the nurses had pulled the man's blankets up to his chin against the cold, which was enough to turn Bordon's ragged breaths into thin wisps of white vapor on the chilled night air. Mustering every bit of strength he had, Bordon managed to extend his arm over the expanse that separated their cots and tug lightly on the blanket. 

'John?' his voice was a weak rasp between effort-filled breaths. The effort of speaking sent jagged bolts of pain through his chest and left him wheezing fitfully on the cot, his hand in a tight fist clinging to the other man's coverlet. Wilkins made no movement and did not respond, prompting Bordon to tug on it again. The loyalist Captain's head lolled to face him as the blanket caught and pulled under his chin, and Bordon saw the glassy lifelessness in the man's eyes before exhaustion sent him spinning back into darkness.   
  
  
  
Hours later, Bordon woke screaming. Almost immediately, hands reached out to restrain him lest his thrashing further aggravate his injuries.   
  
"Captain Bordon! Captain Bordon, PLEASE! Calm down! Sergeant Allen, come here quickly!" General Charles O'Hara pinned Bordon's shoulders to the cot as a young medic rushed over to restrain his legs. Feeling the hands gripping his body, Bordon thrashed harder and opened his eyes to face these sudden attackers, only to recognize the distressed face of the General hovering over his. 

"General…..O'Hara…..sir?" Bordon's movements ceased and he lay painfully gasping for breath, his vision slowly focusing on the man standing over him. 

O'Hara sighed in relief and slowly slackened his grip, sinking onto a simple wooden chair someone had placed at the bedside. 

"Goodness, Captain….I thought you'd had it that time! Though I must say, even in your condition you're a dangerous fellow." O'Hara gingerly rubbed his jaw, which throbbed slightly after being caught in the path of Bordon's flailing elbow during his attempt at holding down the injured man. "Do try and get well soon, so you can start unleashing some of that energy on the Continentals, eh?" 

The General forced a confident smile, as if the wounded officer's recovery was a sure thing. Bordon was confused. _Why has he come?_ he wondered, noting O'Hara's attempts to comfort him. As a second in command he'd had little contact with the Generals, most communication to and from them going directly through their unit's commander, Colonel Tavington.   
  
"Sir…..Wilkins…..he…..where….."   
  
O'Hara frowned and silently cursed the surgeon that had ordered Wilkins' placement so close to his fellow officer. Bordon's state was bad enough without having to worry on the wellbeing of others. Nothing to be done now. The man already knew the truth. 

"Captain Wilkins succumbed to his battle wounds very early this morning, Captain. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you…." O'Hara placed a sympathetic hand on Bordon's arm. He had no way of knowing whether or not the two junior officers had been friends, but assumed he would be upset at the passing of his comrade. Bordon was silent a moment as he absorbed the words.   
  
"Battle?"   
  
"Yes, Captain. Yesterday morning, at a place called Hannah's Cowpens.."   
  
"The dragoons…. How…. Where is Colonel…. Colonel Tavington?" Bordon was weakening quickly, his eyelids starting to droop despite his attempts to keep them open. His words were slow and drawled.   
  
O'Hara had been dreading that question. Fortunately the Captain was fading back into unconsciousness and the answer could wait for another time.   
  
"Just rest now, Captain."   
  
  
  
That was the first of several visits General O'Hara paid Bordon as he languished in the hospital tent. Often the Captain was sleeping when he dropped in, and O'Hara would stay a few moments to hear of his progress from one of the surgeons before slipping out quietly to attend to other business. The few times he found Bordon conscious and coherent, he made small conversation, always neatly sidestepping Bordon's inquiries into the whereabouts of his commander and any details about the battle.   
  
Within the week following the disaster at Cowpens, the army was on the march, once again pursuing the Continentals. Bordon and the other severely injured residents of the hospital tents were loaded into wagons for the move, liberally wrapped in blankets to stave off the cold and provide some padding against the wagons' rough wooden interiors. The jostling he received during the bumpy journey caused terrible pain from the stab wound in his abdomen, and for the first time he was truly glad for the relief unconsciousness brought. The army halted at Ramsour's Mill and camp was re-established, the injured unloaded into the newly raised hospital tents. There his recovery continued to progress and he was soon able to sit up for short periods of time, which relieved some of the pressure on his breathing but increased the ache in his abdomen.   
  
In his first visit since the move, General O'Hara was surprised to find Captain Bordon not only awake, but completely alert and conversing with the occupant of a neighboring bed. His breathing was still loud and rough, but seemed stronger.   
  
Upon noticing O'Hara's approach, Bordon's look turned serious. He was desperate to find out what'd happened in the battle that claimed Captain Wilkins and who knew how many other dragoons, and determined not to let the General get away again before he got some answers.   
  
"Good afternoon, Captain. My, you are looking much improved since I last saw you! What say the surgeons?" O'Hara's smile was genuine.   
  
"Thank you for your concern, sir. They're confident I'll recover, but seem doubtful that I'll ever be able to return to combat duty.. They say my injured lung will never heal completely, so if I were to try fighting I'd quickly become too winded to be of any use on the field." Bordon's eyes reflected the distress that revelation had caused him. His concern was less for his own comfort than for the fact that he had few prospects beyond his service in the army. If this injury prevented him from that, what was he to do? He had nothing to go home to- no business, no family, no grand social connections. The army was his life!   
  
"That is most unfortunate, Captain…. Most unfortunate…." O'Hara frowned, his eyes shaded with disappointment. They'd be without yet another field officer! The losses of late were swiftly becoming serious, and experienced veterans such as Bordon were irreplaceable.   
  
Bordon saw O'Hara's silence as an opening and dove for it. "General, if I may ask, where is Colonel Tavington? He hasn't been to see me and I'm most eager to hear how our unit is faring. From what the private here tells me, losses at Cowpens were quite severe.." 

O'Hara cast a sharp glance at the young infantryman in the bed next to Bordon's. He'd rolled on his side and was now making every effort to appear asleep in order to avoid the General's gaze. The General's lips pressed into a tight line. _He has to find out sometime.._   
  
O'Hara removed his gloves slowly and deliberately, his expression turning dark. Bordon immediately knew the news could not be good.   
  
"You have no idea how it pains me to be the one to tell you this, Captain Bordon. Our losses were quite bad indeed. Your unit suffered the heaviest." He paused a moment to let the words sink in. "At the outset of the battle, Colonel Tavington ordered a premature charge. He didn't realize it at the time, but the Continentals were employing a tactic we've never seen before. They positioned several lines of regulars behind a hill, such that they were concealed from view until our dragoons were practically on top of them. The charge faltered."   
  
He lowered himself onto the empty cot on the other side of Bordon's and sat, leaning heavily on his knees. The pain in the General's eyes was obvious.   
  
"We sent in all our infantry reserves in hopes of reinforcing the cavalry.. ALL our reserves.. but the damage was done. It was too late. The rebels counterattacked. I thought maybe if we regrouped and wheeled to the right we might be able to stop them, but our forces were too scattered. Our infantry and what was left of the dragoons went into full retreat." O'Hara shook his head despairingly. Bordon was visibly disturbed by the account, but listened intently. He had to hear the rest. 

"Colonel Tavington.. after we sent in the reserves, I lost sight of him in the fray. The whole business was chaos such as I have never seen, and pray I don't live to ever see again. Once those that made it out started to regroup, Lord Cornwallis tried to seek your Colonel out, but he was nowhere to be found. He found Wilkins in the hospital tent a short while later, and the Captain informed him he'd witnessed the Colonel thrown from his horse. As you now know, Wilkins was in bad shape and the Lord General was unable to get any more information from him than that. When our burial details returned to the field, they found Colonel Tavington not far from where Wilkins reported last seeing him. His injuries were horrific."   
  
Bordon jumped in eagerly, "Is he in one of the other hospital tents then? That would explain why I haven't seen him!"   
  
O'Hara paused again before continuing, his gaze falling to the rough dirt beneath his highly polished boots- unable to meet the hopeful look in Bordon's eyes. Bordon in turn couldn't help but notice how worn and exhausted the General appeared. He'd never seen him in such a state. The few times he'd met O'Hara before his injury, he'd always been impressed at the General's confident bearing and composure. Suddenly the man looked far older than his forty-one years should have allowed.   
  
"Captain.. Colonel Tavington is dead."   
  
  
  
That was how Captain James Bordon came to know he was the last surviving officer of Tavington's Green Dragoons, and that his unit no longer existed. The handful of dragoons who survived the charge had subsequently been transferred to the other cavalry unit in the area, under the command of Colonel Banastre Tarleton, one of Cornwallis' rising stars. Cornwallis had always preferred Tarleton over Tavington, thinking him the more gentlemanly and obedient of his two dragoon unit leaders. Bordon couldn't help but think that news of his commander's death must not have caused the Lord General much sadness or disappointment.   
  
In the weeks that followed O'Hara's revelation, Bordon sank into depression and his recovery slowed. The medical officers soon urged him to try walking and performing other small tasks, but he had no motivation. Most of his time was spent staring blankly at the cloth wall or ceiling of the tent as they undulated gently in the breeze. When spoken to, his replies were curt and lifeless.   
  
One day in mid-February however, the General visited him once again, this time bearing an offer along with his cheerful bits of encouragement and well-wishings. With his inability to return to the field in light of his injuries, O'Hara offered Bordon a position on his staff. He'd heard of Bordon's value to the dragoons as an intelligence officer, and thought those skills might prove useful- in addition to being lighter duties that his physical state could handle. With the new position came a promotion to Major.   
  
Not knowing what else to do and tired of wallowing listlessly in bed all day, Bordon accepted.   
  
That was how he came to be promoted on the graves of his comrades and the man who'd saved his life. Every time he looked at the stripes, as he did now, he imagined their blood stained the fabric.   
  
  
  
  
----------------------------------------   
_A few notes:_   
On the title- The Erinyes are a trio of revenge/justice goddesses from Greek mythology. The significance of this will become more obvious later. 


	2. Another Dead Colonel

**Chapter 2- Another Dead Colonel**

_The banners flashing through the trees_

_Make their blood dance and chain their eyes;_

_That bugle music on the breeze_

_Arrests them with a charm'd surprise._

_Banner by turns and bugle woo:_

_'Ye shy recluses, follow too!'_

-from "Stanzas from the Grand Chartreuse"

by Matthew Arnold (1855)

  
  
A sudden rapping on the door mercifully broke Major Bordon's reverie and brought him back to the present- not that it was any brighter than the near past. He crossed the small room and opened the door, quickly sizing up the young private he found standing sharply on the other side.   
  
"Major Bordon, sir? General O'Hara has asked to see you." The young man stirred uneasily, unsure of what to do or say next. The crisp newness of his uniform and his boyish features clearly gave him away as a fresh recruit.   
  
Bordon nodded. He'd been expecting the summons as soon as the General was well enough to see him.   
  
Two days earlier the army had taken to the field near the Guilford courthouse. Much to his dismay Bordon had been unable to join them, his wounds not healed sufficiently to allow riding. So instead he'd stayed in camp and met with the army's chief quartermaster on acquiring the supplies O'Hara's divisions would require upon their return. The General himself had been cheerful that morning, obviously quite enthusiastic at the prospect of gaining a little vengeance for the disaster at the Cowpens two months earlier. O'Hara expressed his sincere regrets that Bordon would not be able to accompany the rest of his staff at his side on the battlefield. The Major himself had been visibly disappointed, but wished the General well. His new role as a staff officer was definitely going to take some getting used to, but until his physical state improved more he wouldn't even be able to fulfill that completely.   
  
"Thank you, Private. You're dismissed."   
  
The young man bobbed his head in acknowledgement and turned smartly on his heel before walking off swiftly down the hall. Bordon's gaze followed him until he disappeared around the corner.   
  
_Was I ever that young? Certainly that enthusiastic- and look where it's gotten me._   
  
He shrugged on his uniform jacket and adjusted its fit on his shoulders. Since the disbanding of his dragoon unit and his subsequent transfer to the staff corps, he'd been forced to trade his green-trimmed jacket for one of a longer cut with blue facings. That uniform, with its stiff crimson fabric, polished buttons and Major's stripes, served as a constant reminder of everything that had come to pass, the times that would never return, all the people he'd never see or speak with again.   
  
_I'm a walking curse- everyone who gets near me ends up dead! Andre, Wilkins, Tavington.. and now this! General O'Hara was kind to me, and look where it's gotten him.. My God, why? Damn this war!_   
  
Following the initial British advance, the Continentals had managed to regroup enough to attack a portion of the line. Seeing this, the General rallied the Guards and a regiment of Hessians to counterattack and succeeded in pushing the Americans back, but O'Hara himself was seriously wounded in the process.   
  
After the battle, the army regrouped quickly and re-established itself before moving on to Cross Creek, a small town on the banks of the Cape Fear river. They'd expected to find supplies waiting for them but there were none, prompting extensive foraging and for Bordon, a second meeting with the quartermaster. He'd tried to get in to see the General, who'd been whisked off by several of the top medical officers, but they'd refused to admit him. Now finally O'Hara had asked to see him.   
  
Bordon quickly checked his appearance in the mirror, barely recognizing the pale, ghost of a man who stared back at him. His eyes were sunken and lined with dark circles above hollow cheeks, all results of his weeks in bed and the meager amounts of food he'd been able to keep down during his recovery. Breathing was still difficult, but the wheezing sound his injured lung produced with each breath had quieted somewhat, so that at least the noise no longer kept him awake at night.   
  
Still, the sound was noticeable and frequently earned him strange looks from the people he passed as he carried out his duties around camp. He was almost grateful for it though, as the reaction it caused in others tended to keep them at a distance and away from the aura of bad luck that Bordon believed to follow him around.   
  
As he left his room, the Major made a point of locking the door behind him. With supplies being a rarity, many of the enlisted men had taken to bouts of rampant looting. Most of the town's population had fled with what they could carry of their personal belongings, leaving the British troops to their own devices and hoping the army would move on again soon. Many of the officers chose to take rooms in the abandoned houses lining the town's main street, while the rest of the army made temporary camp in tents that dotted every clear patch of ground in town.   
  
The house Bordon chose was in relatively good shape compared to some of the others in town. As he left through the front door and stepped quickly down from the front landing he cast weary glances at the buildings around him, many of which had windows knocked out in acts of random vandalism.   
  
Spring in North Carolina was warm. Small puffs of gray dust swirled in the mid-morning sunshine as Major Bordon walked down the street, his boots crunching lightly in the gravel. He wound his way between the tents and wagons lining the street, headed toward the second largest house in town- where General O'Hara had take residence as his injuries were tended to.   
  
As soon as he arrived at his destination, Bordon paused for a few moments on the large house's porch, leaning heavily on the railing as he fought to catch his breath. Closing his eyes against the sparks that danced across his vision, he forced himself to breathe slowly as his head swam. Gradually the wave of faintness passed and Bordon regained his composure. He straightened himself and gave his body a moment to find its balance again before knocking firmly on the house's heavy front door. After a few seconds a young medical assistant answered and opened the door wide to admit him.   
  
"Good of you to come so quickly, Major. The General is expecting you. Go ahead up, it's the first room on the left."   
  
Bordon thanked him and proceeded up the wide staircase that led from the entryway to the second floor of the big house. When he reached the top of the landing he turned in the direction the assistant had indicated and found the door there open. He tapped on the frame politely to announce his presence before peaking in.   
  
The room was a large study well lit by a pair of wide glass windows, the walls lined by tall oak bookcases packed with a variety of leather-bound volumes. General O'Hara rested on a broad, comfortable looking bed that had apparently been moved into the study for his convenience, his back propped up on a number of pillows as he sat leafing through a stack of written reports.   
  
At the sound of Bordon's knock, the General looked up.   
  
"Ah, Major! Thank you for coming. I wanted to send for you sooner, but the physicians here have been hovering over me like a flock of starved buzzards, determined not to let me get any work done!"   
  
Bordon smiled at his superior's candor. O'Hara was pale but surprisingly well composed given the serious nature of his injuries. Bordon suspected the General had taken a great deal of care in making himself presentable before asking to see anyone, not wanting to look weak or undignified in the presence of his subordinates. He'd donned a fine white shirt and his uniform vest in an effort to cover the bulky bandages wound about his waist, secured over the deep wound in his right side where the rebel ball had torn clear through.   
  
"I asked to see you as soon as I heard of your misfortune, but they turned me away, sir. How are you feeling?"   
  
"Oh, as well as to be expected, though I must say I'm quite eager to get out of this bed. I've been stuck here for less than two full days and already I'm going stir crazy. I have no idea how you managed to handle such imprisonment for as many weeks as you did, Major! But enough about that, come-come, have a seat." O'Hara gestured quickly to a finely upholstered chair nearby, which Bordon gratefully accepted.   
  
"I've been looking through our casualty reports from the last engagement…. Bloody hell, some of these numbers, Bordon!" O'Hara shook his head and continued leafing through the papers on his lap as he spoke, "We took the field, but the cost of it! By God.. fifty-five officers alone. Colonel Stuart.. Colonel Webster.. we couldn't spare those two.. One quarter of the entire army, Bordon." O'Hara sighed heavily and sank back against his pillows. Bordon sat silently, absorbing the heavy tally of losses.   
  
"What would you have me do, sir? I've spoken to Major McDonnelly twice now about resupplying Bose and the Guard, but he's got nothing to give us.."   
  
"Yes, I spoke to Lord Cornwallis about that last evening. We've no idea what happened to the supplies General Leslie supposedly sent. They were supposed to be here when we arrived. It's clear we can't stay in this area long. We'll have to break camp again and keep heading down river. The sooner we get to Wilmington, the better."   
  
Bordon nodded. Unless they were resupplied soon, morale would plummet and the troops would begin to get even more restless than they already were.   
  
O'Hara looked around the room distractedly for a moment, his eyes finally settling on the wide desk across the room. The General pointed in the direction of a fine crystal brandy snifter sitting on the desk top, a furtive grin forming on his face. "If you wouldn't mind, Major, can you pour me a glass of that? I'm afraid paperwork isn't the only thing those medical harpies have been denying me here."   
  
Bordon rose from his seat and crossed to the desk, searching a few nearby cabinets for a glass, which he then filled and handed to the General. O'Hara tried not to seem over-eager as he sipped the drink, retrieving another of the reports from a table by the bed and scanning through it.   
  
He took a large swallow of the brandy and set the glass down. "Since supplies seem to be a lost cause at the moment, I've got another assignment for you. I see that Colonel Verhältnisse of the Jägers was killed as well.. You probably don't know this, but he was a blood relation to the King of Brunswick. A cousin, I believe. At any rate, whenever you've the time I'd like you to prepare a short report on his death for our primary Hessian liaison, Colonel Revensbruk. Not the sort of thing we'd usually bother with, but since he technically WAS a royal relation, it's better safe than sorry in the case that anyone over there might wonder what happened to him."   
  
O'Hara handed Bordon the paper, a complete list of the Jägers' casualties for the battle, with Verhältnisse's name at the top.   
  
"Being as you didn't see the man fall, you'll have to speak with some of his regiment-mates for some kind of account on the specific circumstances. Don't worry about going into too much detail." O'Hara stretched slightly and flinched at the stab of pain that ran through his injured side.   
  
"I'll get right on it, sir, and bring you the report as soon as it's done."   
  
"Thank you, Major."   
  
Noting O'Hara's fatigue, Bordon politely excused himself of the General and left the house, paper in hand. _A death report.._ It hardly seemed the most interesting of assignments, but anything was better than more pointless bantering with the quartermaster on acquiring non-existent rations and ammunition.   
  
As he walked he looked down at the casualty report again, trying to decide where to begin. _The primary rule for any investigation.. when possible, always start at the source._ His eyes flew to the end of the document, to where its creator had signed off on it.   
  
The name written there in a bold and confident hand was that of one Major F.W. Ehrgeiz...   
  
  
  
  
------------------------------------------   
_A few notes:_   
1) General Charles O'Hara was indeed wounded at the battle of Guilford Courthouse, but I couldnt find any reference to the exact nature of his injuries, so I had to improvise.   
2) O'Hara's command consisted primarily of the Brigade of the Guards (an elite infantry unit), the German Regiment Bose, several groups of Jägers and a small detachment of dragoons.   
3) The casualties O'Hara lists for the battle are all accurate (accept for Verhältnisse, who's original). The British lost 515 out of 2000 regulars, 27 officers and 28 non-commisioned officers. Stuart and Webster were also real casualties. 


	3. Magaera

Author's Notes: Finally, chapter 3! Sorry for taking so long :) Fair bit of forewarning on this one- there's a little (very subtile) m/m "vice of the greeks" allusion near the end. It's nothing at all overt or graphic, so hopefully no one will be offended. 

**Chapter 3- Magaera**

_We shall renew the battle on the plain_

_To-morrow, red with blood will Xanthus be;_

_Hector and Ajax will be there again,_

_Helen will come upon the wall to see._

-from "Palladium" by Matthew Arnold (1867)

  
  
The Hessian Jägers were camped on the outskirts of town, allowing for a significant and deliberate separation from their British regular counterparts. The relationship between the two groups was shaky at best, with the British soldiers looking down on the German mercenaries they fought beside as nothing more than brutish privateers. In return, the German troops held their heads high and flaunted their near-spotless battle records, proudly defending their highly prized honor from the taunts of their supposed comrades with equal doses of sharp words and ready fists.   
  
The two groups were as different as their uniforms, the British in their traditional sharp red and the Germans in more neutral blue or green. The obvious distinction between the two groups made it easier to pull them apart whenever a brawl broke out, if the different languages they used in hurling insults at one another weren't enough. The fact that most of the Hessian troops spoke very little english and the British regulars spoke no german at all made it difficult to resolve disputes. Usually the commanding officers just saved themselves the trouble, making sure the groups were far enough apart and well enough supervised that no incidental clashes could occur and result in any unfortunate paperwork.   
  
As he neared the rows of tents that made up the encampment, Bordon could see groups of men standing about, chatting idly in their harsh and perplexing native language. A few noticed his approach and made whispered comments to their comrades, prompting a number of thinly vailed smiles as they sized up the wheezing red-coated officer suddenly in their midst. Bordon returned their stares boldly as he scanned the group for any sign of an officer in charge. Seeing none he made a direct line for the one soldier who appeared the least threatening of the sordid-looking bunch. The young, dusty blonde Private stood apart from the others, leaning casually against the trunk of a thin tree and whittling a small chunk of wood with a delicate looking paring knife.   
  
Noticing the disturbance amongst his fellow Jägers nearby, the young man looked up from his handiwork and spotted the approaching Major. His calmly focused expression quickly melted into one of fidgety nervousness as the British officer neared, his own face fixed in a look of bold determination.   
  
Bordon stopped a few paces from the Hessian private, who recognized his rank and stood swiftly to attention, slipping the half-carved piece of wood and small knife into a pocket on his blue uniform jacket.   
  
"Do you speak english?" Bordon noticed a glimmer of recognition in the young man's eyes.   
  
"Yes sir, I speak little. Do you look for someone, Major?" The private's words were slow and thickly accented, but understandable.   
  
"Indeed I do, private. I need to speak with Major Ehrgeiz.. would you happen to know where I might be able to find him?"   
  
"Able to find…?" The private looked confused for a moment as he mulled over the words, before a sudden smile broke across his face as he grasped Bordon's meaning.   
  
"Ah, yes! You seek the Major? I will show you. Come! This way, sir."   
  
The private gestured for Bordon to follow and struck off swiftly in the direction of a mass of tents bunched together nearby. The other Germans seemed to have gotten over their initial curiosity toward the Major, as his business obviously didn't lie with any of them. They returned to their conversations, cooking fires and card games as they jovially passed around bottles of wine and other sorts of liquor, likely liberated from one of the houses near the edge of their camp.   
  
Bordon did his best to keep up with the swift pace set by the young man, but the strain of doing so quickly became apparent by the sound his lungs made as he forced them to work more rapidly than they were prepared to. The Private slowed considerably and fell into step beside him so that he could catch his breath. The Major smiled appreciatively and decided to try and strike up a conversation with the young German.   
  
"What's your name, Private?"   
  
"Wurtzer, sir." The young Private fidgeted with the buttons on his blue jacket as they walked, picking their way amongst the tents.   
  
"So, Private Wurtzer- how has your regiment been recovering from our most recent battle? I heard from General O'Hara that this unit was heavily engaged?"   
  
The man was quiet a moment as he mentally translated Bordon's meaning, "Ah yes, sir! We are well as to expect. The General is most kind to send you in asking after us." The Private hesitated a moment, as if searching for words or debating the wisdom of continuing his response. "Forgive my poor words, sir, but many past generals have seemed to care little for us. General O'Hara is not like that. He treats us as well as British soldiers. We try to fight well for him."   
  
Bordon pondered a moment. It was true that many of those in the British command looked down on the Hessians as a pack of unruly mercenaries. In his time with the dragoons he'd often heard Tavington mention Cornwallis speaking ill of the Jägers and other German units, complaining that they were hesitant to press an attack or slow to follow orders. Often, their behavior in the field was much the same as that of the regular British infantry, but the British troops usually escaped the same scrutiny.   
  
"How long have you been fighting here in the Colonies?"   
  
"I have two years, sir. Our regiment arrived here in April of '78. Many other Jägers are here since '76, but we came late."   
  
Bordon's eyebrows arched curiously, "Two years though- you must have seen a decent amount of action?"   
  
The Private nodded enthusiastically, "Yes, sir! This regiment, 6th Jägers, we were fighting Monmouth Courthouse, Newport, Stony Point, Minisink, Newtown..." The young man ticked the battles off on his fingers as he named them. "Other smaller fights too, but those are big. They send us everywhere in New York. Then we came south with General Clinton. We fight in Charleston and Camden before transfer to General O'Hara."   
  
Bordon was impressed, "That's quite a list! I saw little action in the north, myself. Was assigned to intelligence. Interesting work, but I was glad when I got the opportunity to be transferred... But tell me, your late Colonel Verhältnisse- was he in command of your group the entire time?"   
  
Wurtzer looked confused a moment, but then his eyes lit as he realized the meaning of the question, "No, sir. Colonel Verhältnisse commanded us only after we came here to Carolina." 

Bordon pondered that a moment. He couldn't tell from Wurtzer's tone whether or not he'd personally liked the Colonel, so Bordon assumed the young Private had little contact with their commanding officer. Any orders would have been communicated to Wurtzer and other enlisted men through lower ranking officers. The young man probably had little other information that would be useful in his inquiry to the Colonel's death.   
  
"I must say, Private, your english is quite good."   
  
Wurtzer beamed. "I greatly thank you for that, Major! Before joining the Jägers I much wanted to be a teacher of literature. I much liked your England's William Shakespeare, but family matters stopped me finishing my studies." His voice was tinged with regret.   
  
As the pair neared what Bordon guessed to be their destination, a tent slightly larger and set apart from the rest, a heavy set blue-coated Hessian captain hurriedly broke away from his conversation by one of the mess tents and moved to intercept them. The flustered looking man shot Bordon a sharp glance and called out to the private, who stopped and turned to face his superior officer. The two then started a fast paced and, on the part of the captain, angry sounding exchange filled with rough gestures. Bordon stood back and watched the pair, trying to get some inkling of what was going on despite the fact that he could understand nothing of what was being said. He began to regret having studied only French and Latin back in his school days. The young private looked meek and much abashed, which didn't phase the captain at all as he continued to harangue the man boisterously until Bordon could stand silently no longer.   
  
"Now just a moment, Captain! What, exactly, is going on here?" He stepped between the two Germans and spoke with a demanding tone, doing his best to look imposing.   
  
The captain broke off mid-sentence and turned to face him, his face flushed red.   
  
"Sir, it is inexcusable! Major Ehrgeiz, he..." Bordon couldn't be sure if it was a matter of the man's incensed state or the fact that his grasp of english was simply poor, but the Captain's accent was so thick his words were barely understandable as he sputtered angrily.   
  
"I can hear you out there, you know." The voice that chimed in suddenly from within the command tent was measured and refined, and judging by the Captain's reaction was likely that of Major Ehrgeiz himself.   
  
The entry flap on the tent suddenly parted and a young, rather disheveled looking Lieutenant stepped out. His dark blond hair was severely mussed and he carried his uniform jacket draped casually over his arm. The young man shot the flustered Captain a sly grin before wandering confidently over to the mess tent. The Captain's face turned a brilliant shade of red before he too stormed off, in the opposite direction.   
  
Wurtzer was nearly in panic. His eyes shot back and forth rapidly between the two departing officers, fidgeting nervously.   
  
"Private Wurtzer?" The same calm voice emanated again from within the tent, "Would you please tell our guest that if he wishes to speak with me he should be obliged to come in here and do so?"   
  
The Private started at the sound of his name. Judging by the rabbit-in-a-snare look on his face, Bordon guessed he hadn't understood a word of his commander's subsequently spoken command. Bordon tapped Wurtzer's shoulder lightly, which caused him to startle but succeeded in getting his attention.   
  
"Thank you for your assistance, Private. I believe I've found who I'm looking for." Bordon smiled reassuringly. The young soldier bobbed his head in acknowledgement and stammered some response in german before scrambling off in the direction they'd come. Bordon wondered how long it'd take before the young man was set upon by his squad mates for details about what the unusual British Major had been looking for.   
  
Bordon tugged on the bottom hem of his jacket to straighten it and took a deep breath before striding toward the entry to the command tent. He lifted the canvas flap and bent slightly at the waist to duck inside, letting the flap fall back into place behind him.   
  
The inside of the tent was dim with the flaps closed and the interior was lit only by what sunshine could get through the cloth of the tent's roof and sides. As Bordon's eyes adjusted slowly from the bright sunshine outside, he could see the silhouette of the Hessian Major back-lit by the orange sunlight gleaming through the canvas behind him.   
  
"Good afternoon, Major. I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm Major Bordon from General O'Hara's staff. He sent me to ask you a few questions."   
  
As he spoke Bordon took a few steps forward so he could see his fellow officer more clearly. Major Ehrgeiz lounged back in a chair with his feet propped up on a small wooden field desk. As his sight grew accustomed to the dim light, Bordon could make out more details about his appearance.   
  
The Major was tall and lanky man in his mid-thirties with dark brown hair and a thick mustache. His uniform was a mess, but Ehrgeiz didn't seem to notice. His vest was unbuttoned and his white shirt was sloppily un-tucked from his breeches, his blue uniform jacket draped over a nearby chair.   
  
As Bordon neared the desk, Erhgeiz gestured toward the chair occupied by his jacket.   
  
"Ah, I see." His thin mouth twisted into a sneer-like grin and his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked Bordon over. "Well, have a seat Major and I'll do my best to answer them.."   
  
  
  



	4. Alecto

Author's Notes: My appologies once again for taking such a long time on updating this. I've been trying despirately to split writing time equally between this story and my other in-progress Patriot fic "All I Have to Give", and more often then not this's resulted in me getting little done on either! Thanks to my readers for sticking with me, and to Meg my partner in crime for helping keep the spirit of our dear Mr. Bordon alive in the world of fanfic! Enjoy the new chapter! ~MKawaii   
  


**Chapter 4- Alecto**

_In grim array the grisly spectres rise,_

_Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen,_

_Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night._

_Again the screech-owl shrieks--ungracious sound!_

_I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill._

-from "The Grave" by Robert Blair (1743)

Ehrgeiz stared coolly across the desk at Bordon, who tried his best to match his fellow Major's demeanor. The soft Carolina breeze outside caused the canvas sides of the tent to ripple softly as the two men sat in silence, like duelists each sizing up their opponent before the beginning of a bout.   
  
"Major Ehrgeiz, I've come to ask you a few questions about the death of your former commander, Colonel Verhältnisse..." Bordon paused slightly, intently watching the face of the Major for any flicker of reaction to the name. "You see, General O'Hara has requested that I write a report on the circumstances of the Colonel's death in order to quell any questions that may arise in the future about his fate. As I'm sure you know, the Colonel was an important man..."   
  
"In his own mind, perhaps," Ehrgeiz drawled, his expression fixed and unreadable.   
  
Bordon regarded the Hessian major with an equally blanked expression, "Is it to be my understanding then that you held some sort of dislike for the man?"   
  
The corner of Ehrgeiz's mouth twisted upward ever so slightly, causing his thick mustache to arch malevolently.   
  
"Your prudence is admirable, Major Bordon. I take by your highly controlled mannerisms that you have some skill at interrogation and must, therefore be serving our dear General O'Hara in some sort of intelligence role?"   
  
Bordon couldn't restrain the look of shock that crept over his features at the idea that despite his best efforts, his intentions were so easily readable to this enigmatic German officer. His struggle to find an appropriate reply was quickly cut off by Ehrgeiz.   
  
"Do not look so surprised, Major... it is afterall, not so terribly difficult to identify the characteristics of a role one has themselves filled at some point. Your initial presumption, however, was correct. I did not like the Colonel. He was a pompous fool dispossessed of any graces or skills becoming of an officer, and totally unfit to command."   
  
As he spoke, Ehrgeiz made some attempt at straightening his appearance, tucking in his shirt and slowly re-buttoning his vest.   
  
"I knew the man only a short while, Major, but can honestly say he was a plain example of everything an officer ought **_not_** to be! I say whatever dirty-faced Colonial fired the ball that knocked that fat idiot off his perch atop that fence-railing did this army an incomparable service. If not for the fact that he's in all likelihood dead himself, I'd seek the man out and personally thank him!"   
  
Bordon frowned. _How can he speak so venomously of the man he served? And to speak of the deceased in such a way... It's true I rarely agreed with Tavington's methods, but as my commander he deserved my respect none the less.. Obviously there's more to this!_   
  
As he considered Ehrgeiz's words, Bordon's breathing quickened slightly. He swallowed reflexively and steadied his voice as a stab of pain lanced through his chest at the added strain and made his head spin.   
  
"Fence-railing, you say?"   
  
Ehrgeiz stared distractedly at the entry flap of the tent, his expression creased by a deep frown. His emotional reaction to the memory of his former commander had broken the balance between the two men, and for the moment Bordon had the upper hand and was free to press the attack.   
  
"Yes, that's the last place I saw him, anyway. Our charge faltered slightly in what suddenly became a cross-fire. Verhältnisse decided then to try and play the noble hero by climbing up on this low fence to scream at the men in some pathetic attempt at encouraging them to continue the assault... stupid fool! The charge continued, to be sure, but not because of his red-faced screaming and flailing about! Grave detail found his body at the foot of the fence in about the same spot. Colonials must have dropped him like a fat duck."   
  
Bordon clenched his teeth at the image Ehrgeiz's words conjured in his mind of what his own commander's solitary death must have been like. _The fate of a soldier,_ he thought, _to die surrounded by your fellow man and yet completely alone._   
  
He met Ehrgeiz's gaze once more. "Are you aware of who conducted the grave detail?"   
  
Ehrgeiz snorted.   
  
"Of course I'm aware! You see, your fine countrymen cannot be bothered to soil their hands with the blood of we filthy mercenaries, and as such we must conduct our own, separate burial detail at the end of each engagement! The Colonel always gave this duty to Captain Weilburg. As the Captain seems to enjoy it in a rather distasteful way, I did so as well, since for obvious reasons the Colonel himself could not be found to give the order."   
  
"And then this Captain Weilburg reported to you of the Colonel's fate?"   
  
"Yes, Major, that is what happened." Ehrgeiz arched a thin, dark eyebrow. "Now, if you have no further useless questions for me, I have a great amount of paperwork to tend to. Verhältnisse was as useless in his recordkeeping as in everything else, and has left me with a great mess to sort through."   
  
Bordon frowned but gave no indication of leaving.   
  
"One last 'useless question', Major.. where can I find this Captain Weilburg?"   
  
Ehrgeiz stiffened slightly in his chair, looking up from the papers on his desk and back to Bordon.   
  
"And why would you be needing to know that, exactly?"   
  
The corner of Bordon's mouth turned upward slightly. "A mere technicality.. You see, Major, I have paperwork of my own to tend to."   
  
This time it was Ehrgeiz's turn to frown. "Very well, Major Bordon.. When he isn't fighting or hovering around corpses, the captain can usually be found in the mess tent. Don't expect to get much of use out of him though.. You'll find most Jägers aren't as skilled with your graceless language as I am."   
  
---------------------   
  
After ducking out of Major Ehrgeiz's tent, Bordon paused a moment to think through the details of the conversation. The Hessian major was obviously hostile toward his former commander, and Bordon couldnt help but think that there must be more to it than could possibly be based on the late-Colonel's professionalism or lack thereof.   
  
Still, he was hardly investigating the personal relationships of the men involved here.. all he needed was a description of the man's death for the sake of paperwork! Unfortunately, despite all the posturing and side-stepping, his conversation with the Major had been only slightly helpful on that account- leaving him no choice but to seek out a **second** ranking Jäger, in the form of this Captain Weilburg... a prospect Bordon did not find at all appealing.   
  
With a slight sigh Bordon strode off into the camp once more in search of the Jägers' mess tent.   
  
After a short time searching he found his destination, tipped off by the number of Hessian soldiers standing around the large tent eating from small tin plates and sipping cups of what he presumed to be coffee- a thick, sludgy brew the German soldiers seemed to prefer over the usual tea drunk by their British counterparts_(1)_. They eyed the red-uniformed Major and whispered amongst themselves as he pushed aside the drooping cotton flap at the tent's entrance and walked inside. It was a large, airy enclosure with several low wooden benches lining each side, and an arrangement of wooden barrels and crates being used as make-shift tables. The opposite end of the tent stood open, revealing several smoking cooking fires were the group's food was prepared. Bordon wrinkled his nose slightly at the mixture of smells on the hazy air inside the tent, dominated by burnt coffee, bacon and sweat- a most unpleasant combination.   
  
A dozen or so blue-coated germans sat in small groups around the mess tent, except for one man sitting alone in the back corner. He was large and heavy-set with a thick dirty-blond mustache, and Bordon quickly recognized him as the flustered captain that had confronted young private Wurtzer in front of the major's tent.   
  
Ignoring the curious stares of the other Jägers, most of whom had stopped eating to stare silently at their unusual visitor, Bordon walked quickly to the back of the mess tent and stopped in front of the captain. The plump, stern-faced man continued to eat, taking no notice of the figure standing before him.   
  
Bordon cleared his throat audibly and the large man finally looked up from his plate, fixing the major with a ghostly stare.   
  
"So sorry to disturb your meal, but are you Captain Weilburg?"   
  
The german captain's mustache twitched slightly and he set his tin plate of half-eaten lunch down on top of a wooden box by his feet before responding.   
  
"Weilburg. Yes."   
  
"Very good!" Bordon smiled politely. "I am Major Bordon of General O'Hara's staff... may I have a few words with you captain? Your commander, Major Ehrgeiz, left me in the impression when I spoke to him earlier that you may have some information that could be useful for a report I'm working on."   
  
A mixture of confusion and annoyance flickered across the captain's face.   
  
"I ask speak slow and simply, Major. Much hard is knowing your words." Weilburg's gruff voice was slow, halting, and thickly accented, bringing Bordon sharply back to Ehrgeiz's comment about the limited english-speaking skills of his men. This was going to be a very difficult interview..   
  
"Forgive me, Captain. I will try to speak carefully. I need you to answer a few questions. Is there someplace more quiet that we could talk?" Bordon was careful to articulate his words slowly and precisely as Weilburg stared at him raptly, slowly translating his meaning.   
  
Weilburg scoffed. "I tell you all needed, Major Bordon. We talk here." The captain then turned toward his fellow Jägers and startled Bordon by bellowing at them in his native language. _"RAUS! Ich müss mit diesem Offizier allein sprechen!"(2)_ The other Hessians in the mess tent grumbled and picked up their plates before filing out, casting annoyed backward glances at Weilburg as they complied.   
  
Bordon curiously watched them clear out, then quickly swept the dirt off a nearby unoccupied bench with his hand before pulling it closer and sitting down across from the captain. He forced another tight smile and nodded to Weilburg.   
  
"Thank you, Captain.. that is much better. I did not intend, however, to cause such a disturbance..."   
  
It was obvious Weilburg did not completely understand his meaning, but the captain puffed out his chest slightly and nodded, obviously quite proud of his display of control over the men.   
  
"Now.." Bordon set his elbows on his knees and leaned forward slightly. "I need you to tell me about how you found Colonel Verhältnisse."   
  
Weilburg stroked his mustache and furrowed his thick eyebrows. "Found?"   
  
"Yes, the Colonel's body," Bordon placed a hand on his own chest for emphasis. "What was the state of his body when you found it during grave detail?"   
  
The captain's eyes narrowed, his large mouth twisting into a wicked grin. "Dead, major. Shot in back."   
  
Bordon frowned and nodded. "I see.. whereabouts on his back, exactly."   
  
Weilburg turned slightly and pointed to a spot on the lower right side of his back, near the base of the spine. Bordon's eyebrows raised incredulously. _How?... Wasn't he facing the enemy? Even if he turned toward his own men as he stood on the fence, only a portion of his upper body would have rotated sufficiently for..._   
  
Bordon rose from his spot on the bench and quickly pulled down the hem of his jacket to straighten it.   
  
"If you wouldn't mind, captain, I'd like you to join me on a short ride. I need to see the exact spot where you found him!"   
  
  
  
-----------------------------------------   
Notes:   
1) In all honesty, I'm not sure if coffee was available at this time. Forgive me if this is inaccurate, but I think it greatly adds to the imagery and feel of the camp scene and thus decided it was worth the possibility of angering the history gods with a slight factual error.   
2) Translates simply to- "Get out! I have to talk to this officer alone!".. ah, so this is why I studied german for six years ^_- 


End file.
